Two lovers meet in solitude of a damp alleyway, they stand silhouetted against a backdrop of burning moons and embattled stars flaming final glory across an endless night of dead space – embrace and click open an ornate cigarette case extending narcotic tube long and obscenely flexible. Twisting proboscises probe one another in passionate clinging, curl up like narcotic smoke in a hazy grey dawn of embers burning out and dropping to the ground mud-stained and metallic. Two lovers melt down into effluvium – let loose the clothes in hasty fumbling of pants and underdrawers – breath of rotten ectoplasm mingles with the blood and pus and sweat of an expectant orifice dripping venereal excitement. Ankles up about the ears, slither jelly on cock and asshole – states of love in fading grey dawn, moons burning out to luscious embers – shimmering translucent skin sheds snakelike in a trail of liquid jelly – makes you feel good just to see it... pubescent eyes from window and fire-escape jack off in fantastic frenzy arcing vibrant jets of jism in all the colours of the rainbow... Cut to stale hotel room: sweat of blood-stained sheets and television demands a dollar just to look – “leave the money on the dresser” – punchcard timeclock rings bell on cracked plaster wall, open mouth dissolves heat through dry fumbling of pants and underdrawers – faded grey cunt and limp prick play violin to a symphony of night sky burning black through neon window streets. Roaches and other insects play about a scarred navel receiving special attention from state-of-the-art pleasure device and light bondage gear hangs flabby businessmen from the ceiling spurting whitewash – rough hands caress a fraudulent breast. Proboscis leans in and explores the prickly shaved crevasse of a hundred lovers at fifty-buck-an-hour-non-negotiable-extra-if-you-want-it-special... mirrored ceiling tells story of limp prick rising to the occasion – toothless mouth and calloused knees in well-practiced manoeuvre devour the neon night – “leave the money on the dresser” – makes you feel good just to see it… pay extra for a thing like that... take a look through state-of-the-art two-way mirror – you want it special? Cut to Turkish bathhouse on eastside street of littered human detritus: long insect fingers probe taut fishboy flesh wafting smell of freshly soaped scrotum, petroleum jelly, and penetrated rectum – arcing jism colours fishboy flesh on a slick and tiled floor, mingles in a viscous rivulet with steam and soapwash. Breath of rotten ectoplasm and cold beet soup wastes pale gooseflesh in dripping expectation – happy queens of a nation rush in to frenzied fumbling and throbbing cockshaft spearing holy deeds in a night-time squeal of delight – arcing jism colours wet air and proffered cigarette, long and obscenely flexible, wafts narcotic smell of freshly soaped scrotum, petroleum jelly, and penetrated rectum... we shift out in a fading grey afternoon, hide face in rusty old newspaper pulling coat collar up and over in shame of holy ecstasy – rotten ectoplasm on breeze of eastside street and human detritus... Cut to nuptial night, the virgin Mary: jumps on shrivelled prick of holy Joseph – the heavy-set Nazarene withers and dies on the spot, cold eyes desiccating dust. Mary rides the body sheep bleating and all manner of animal noises – a thousand rusty Jews look on, breath held in auto-erotic asphyxiation, jack off colours of the magi burning bright against metallic moons and embattled stars pulsing out on a cool, blue wind of static. “Put the money on the dresser” – stale smell of musty rectum relieved and cleaned by soft, holy hands and penetrated to the hilt by jelly rubber cockshaft strapped on in leather stirrups to the virgin queen of saints – Joseph cums an arc of jism multicoloured into dead night air, catches a thousand rusty Jews bursting forth in ragged robes and leaving money on the dresser (file out shamefaced, pull old newspaper up and over, turn up the coat collar). Saints of the universe look on pleased and pleasured – they strap on the automatic stimulation device and fuck old catholics spitting in the grey dawn... “pass the collection plate… leave the money on the dresser...” Cut to cramped vestibule of “forgive me father for I have sinned”: lecherous old priest spits in the grey dawn, nurses priapic growth of a young boy in first communion, “do you touch yourself at night?” Solid gold cassock lifts to reveal an undulating proboscis tasting taut fishboy flesh in holy spirit arcing neon through the afternoon sunset – settles in vat of holy water drunk off communion wine – “pass the collection plate...” Old catholics spitting in the grey dawn turn blind eyes and attend the stations of the cross in paroxysms of self-flagellation and auto-erotic asphyxiation, writhe around in orgasms of prurience, ride the ass of Joseph, jelly rubber cockshaft up to the hilt – “have to pay extra for that kind of thing...” “pass the collection plate...” Insect fingers weave in damp alleyway: we make love in soft grace of neon jism arcing rainbows through dead night air. Lecherous old priest lifts solid gold cassock in cramped vestibule: “forgive me father for I have sinned...” “leave the money on the dresser...” Rancid jism of the world in thick ropes of bondage hanging flabby businessmen from the ceiling – “have to pay extra for that sort of thing... leave the money on the dresser...” Old insect fingers probe rough caress of fishboy flesh – faded grey cunt in neon afternoon – musty smell of blood and pus and sweat and Control mechanism entwines proboscis and limp prick in a writhing knot of dead flesh while pubescent eyes jack off in spurting bursts of neon rainbow. We make love in damp alleyway, in Turkish bathhouse, in expectant drip of priapic growth spurting whitewash across a neon sky – dark rape of saints wearing all manner of automatic pleasure devices, lifts solid gold cassock in cramped vestibule, falls down in orgasms of prurience with a ghostly old porter sweeping in the grey dawn. We drink down communion wine screwing holy Joseph up the ass with wafting smell of freshly soaped scrotum, petroleum jelly, and penetrated rectum – virgin Mary, queen of saints, squeals in delight – flabby businessmen lift rusty old newspapers up and over, turning coat collars up around thick necks in a fading grey afternoon – faded grey cunt and limp prick pass the collection plate... Rancid jism of the world wafts smell of musty outhouse, petroleum jelly, and penetrated rectum into holy water of old catholics spitting in the grey dawn. Insect fingers caress taut fishboy flesh in stale hotel room passing the collection plate – dark rape of saints – holy water melts proboscis into effluvious jelly trailing damp alleyway, fumbles pants and underdrawers. Cut to mother Mary fondling limp prick in faded neon night: grey cunt opens wet mouth and performs well practiced manoeuvre in stale hotel room bed – makes you feel good just to see it... – “leave the money on the dresser” – a thousand Jews look on and screw each other up the ass with jelly rubber pleasure device strapped on in leather stirrups – “forgive me father for I have sinned...” Rancid jism of the world in wet sex yearned and lusted in a fading grey afternoon –flesh of my flesh melts down to effluvious jelly, leaves thick and rotten ectoplasm on breath of air entwining proboscis. Control mechanism springs to life in neon night of limp prick and faded grey cunt – “leave the money on the dresser...” – old catholics spitting in the grey dawn suppress saints of holy sexual congress with a solid burst of fire from an old .44 – cum musty underdrawers lifting skirts of altar boys in cramped vestibule – cum nasty in phosphorescent slag spitting on queens of nation – solid gold cassock lifts to reveal throbbing cockshaft penetrating rectums of taut fishboy flesh... death of the flesh in rancid jism of the world – fishboys die desiccated at touch of faded grey cunt and insect fingers probing musty rectums of the world – the virgin Mary melts into jelly, screwed up the ass by a thousand pubescent Jews on window and fire-escape. Death of the flesh in holy water sprinkled bathhouse lifting skirts of altar boys and cumming a neon rainbow in musty underdrawers – we melt away in fading neon night, make love in death of the flesh – Control mechanism leaves money on the dresser... Fade out… Take 1: Five days the Spencer Courier runs a wet mouth of Barbara Brown – she born late night neon burn bright across embattled stars and heavy breathing boys on window and fire-escape – burns down the papal office – obtains a judge and state attorney in littered human detritus – proclaims that every baptized christian wafts smell of petroleum jelly, arcing jism, Sunday School teacher stale smell of penetrated rectum... she give way to free paper dying rotten ectoplasm in 1910 – dies of a heart attack on the spot, desiccating promptly – “Oh say can you see?” Cut to courtroom: squeals of delight arc across the county prosecutor – he wins by a soaped scrotum, petroleum jelly, Board of Trade at bullet point speech centre (minutes to go... “by the dawn's early light...”). Grey afternoon construction of the Spencer Courier with a team of blonde workers pulsing up and down about rigid steel tools – collar up and over drinking inferior Kentucky bourbon in a faded neon night... mother Brown exposes herself in a Turkish bathhouse practicing law on taut fishboy flesh (“habeas corpus you know... want it special for the evidence committee...”) – call the witnesses! Enter the commissioner: elects himself president of shrivelled pricks twisting out and up, defames his new position in a faded grey cunt of soapy scrotum and penetrated rectums wafting stale smells of relief, waves his .44 and threatens to shoot anyone against a false advertising claim of dusty jism arcs across a tiled floor…. Enter Mary, queen of criminal complaints: copies the idea springing up from pale gooseflesh – shivered fishboys die about the room in steam and rough insect caress– all manner of animal noises sheep bleating on a shrivelled prick writhing cold tile floor of a Turkish bathhouse… minutes to go... faded grey cunt backs out of the room... long embattled trial: Brown decides to buy the winter next day arcing jism – Mary, queen of criminal complaints, dies of a heart attack on the spot… Cut to farmhouse (Brown organising her address book): a thousand Jews look on in conference, they play finished through an evening of rubber pleasure device – “his wife help me, father, for I have sinned in Memorial Stadium of Manhattan…” – Brown joins the press corps and wafts out the courtroom ratifying case in rancid jism of a football field... gavel hammers down: the case is dismissed on the spot. Grey afternoon named to shine on offer – American Control mechanism fades grey cunt of St. Petersburg – “leave the money in 1975...” Brown averages six weeks spitting in grey Columbia – publishes dead missive of cum in a musty vestibule, solid gold masturbation on the walls... the whole thing bought and sold by Democrats penetrating rectums of 1973 – we sell on later… rancid jism commencing '77… Cut to country club (Brown slips a faded .44 into the waistband of her luminous grey slacks): faded grey cunt and President Mary, queen of saints, melt into jelly by the Columbia yachts floating harbour of a vast country club where sweep an old porter... new country Jews in window and boatbow rise to completion sprinkling bathhouse and eelboat in rainbow jism (the porter: “musty under-trim I say... keep it off the lacquer you animals you...”). We make love in death's head mounted rudder spinning wildly, leave musty jism arcing on boatbow Columbia yacht number 23... Cut: Take 2 Interior – Drawing Room – Night – Brown is the state ballast commissioner: Brown arranges her address book and files a team of blonde construction workers representing 550 feet of threat during a 1941 blast – newspapers the gimmick – published apology: “keep that rotten stuff off the lacquer I say!” Hobbs busts in with the gasoline outboard motor put-put-putting out to sea (“say can you seeee? By the dawn's early light...”), takes the helm of yacht number 23 and leads the boat out to cramped vestibule of solid gold cassock – “forgive me father for my wife, you see... sinned in Memorial Stadium of Manhattan...” (“what so proudly we haaaiiiled, at twilight's last gleaming...”). Embattled stars shining down on the neon night: “put the money on the dresser.” Stale smell of water tank relieved and cleaned by soft, holy hands sprinkles on face of the complainant queen… she want it special – have to pay extra for that kind of thing... she penetrates a jelly rubber cockshaft strapped on in leather folding drip – Mary, queen of saints, writhes around the floor in a white-hot orgasm of prurience. Joseph cums an arc of jism into the night air, catches a thousand rusty Jews in ragged icebox stealing beer and sandwiches and leaving money on the dresser. Pulls old newspaper up and over – the universe looks on pleased and pleasured – automatic stimulation devices fuck old catholic publishers in grey days of “pass the collection plate...” Cut: Take 3 Cut to cramped vestibule of “forgive me father, offered a free priest spitting grey sunshine...”: growth of young boy's first communion – “say can you see? Do you touch yourself at night? By the dawn's early light...?” Solid gold cassock lifts in 1861, reveals undulating proboscis taste taut fishboy flesh – father spirit arcs neon through the afternoon sunset (“what so proudly we hailed... at twilight's last gleaming...”). Army Lew, drunk off communion wine, falls to the floor, ankles up about his ears, asshole gleaming in petroleum jelly – old catholics schooled by dawn, turn blind eye and attend stations of desire – flagellation, auto-erotic asphyxiation – ride Joseph jelly rubber cockshaft up to the hilt... Missouri then, for that kind of thing – “pass the collection plate...” (“whose broad stripes and bright staaars!”). Dead fingers weave in damp alley making love in grace and murder of the white-man – rainbows through the dead night air... – lecherous gold cassock in cramped vestibule: “forgive me father, sinned in Ozark...” “leave the money on the dresser...” Father's world in thick ropes of bondage hanging flabby in the print shop: “have to pay extra for the sort of thing… Sunday money on the dresser...” Old insect fingers in April 1876 – taut fishboy flesh – faded grey cunt neon in Brown's mother, married smell of blood and pus and sweat and Control – the family up for cash, sells proboscis and limp prick while pubescent eyes of Louisville burst a neon rainbow. We make love in damp Courier- Journal – expectant drip of priapic growth (“through the per-III-lous fight...”), dark sock in cramped vestibule... communion wine drunk off February 1885, we screw Joseph up the ass with wafting smell of mother Brown working petroleum jelly and freshly penetrated rectum into a soapy lather... virgin Mary truth... use it shave your erectile whiskers, “keep it off the lacquer you animal you...” Cut to barroom – Interior – Night: 1888 squeals in delight as flabby businessmen lift little Chauncey Brown up and over, turn coat collar up in a faded grey cunt – limp prick passes the collection plate... Brown coughs a gem of bright flesh onto the dusty floor “this climate no good for me – we move to Indiana…” (“o'er the ramparts we waaatched...”). The family live on stale money, get the seed and plant regular, waft smell of musty outhouse, petroleum jelly, heavy rain on arid farmland bleeding rotten ectoplasmic breath of air (use it shave your erectile whiskers...). Brown rectum in holy water of old catholics spitting in the grey dawn – the whole thing falls through – move back to Louisville, fingers caressing taut fishboy flesh in a stale collection plate – dark rape of saints holy August 1889... effluvious jelly trailing damp alleyway suffers heart attack in musty underdrawers – dies on the spot desiccating promptly (“were so gallantly streaming...”). Cut to mother Mary fondling expectant orifice: “take it easy on night-time excitement...” faded grey cunt opens wet mouth in Kentucky bourbon, red manoeuvre in stale hotel room make you fit for eating – “leave the money on the dresser...” Street sounds record St. Petersburg: Brown silhouettes against a backdrop of flaming conference hall, drunks spill beer on the pavement, she checks her watch: “print time 4:00pm…” blazes glory across home game subscriptions 1909 – ornate cigarette case clicks open to a new city charter, long and obscenely flexible, twists Frank Barnhart at the end of his rope – we vacate to this hospital, drunks spilling beer – the thing curls up around the player and the game like the newspaper got the gimmick (“and the rocket's red glaaare...”). Brown taps her watch, reveals the sun dropping day and does not shine effluvium – Columbia yacht number 23 slides into the harbour like an old porter sweeping and spitting in the grey dawn. Enter H. Tripp Jr: first paper in pus and sweat of a blazing hurricane, pubescent eyes blaze bright and metallic – Tripp advocates frenzy arcing jism through to Pinellas Peninsula – brown rainbow burns bright in a neon night (“the bombs bursting in air...”). Interior – Hospital – Night – designed and built by road through to 1976: Brown discovers test television, cheats the country, leaves money on the dresser... wet fiberglass with wooden scandal, police in underdrawers angle editorial pictures in St. Peterburg. Brown and son roach four thousand pounds hiding long insect fingers – pass the collection plate... – the commissioner found dead of heart attack, desiccates promptly (“gave us proof through the niiight...”). California boat draws up in the harbour commanding attention for miles around… Brown hangs flabby businessmen from a red ceiling… Cut to streetscape New York City: two lovers meet in free newspaper network – burn moons and gallons of gin roaching through the night, dead case extends narcotic embrace. Proboscis probes this lawyer, converts to narcotic smoke in galley of the law licence ground in mud (“that our flag was still there...”). The head is fully enclosed – I loose the clothes –Army Lew Brown August 1894, ankles up about his ears, ass shiny with petroleum jelly – breath of rotten ectoplasm in an American lawyer, newspaper superintendent, expectant orifice Drittersburg. We make love in fading grey city 1927 – six days shimmering translucent skin – the “Sunshine Offer” – Brown marries Barbara liquid jelly; makes you feel good just to see it... arcs vibrant jets of jism from window and fire-escape. Cut to stale hotel room of Confederate Captain, 1900: Brown demands a dollar – punchcard timeclock of full public education, ended one last mouth dissolving heat – faded grey cunt and family moved to St Louis – sky burns black as insects play about the witnessed deed – the commissioner found dead of heart attack, desiccating promptly – “keep that stuff off the lacquer you animal you...” State-of-the-art pleasure devices play the stepfather, died a businessman from shaved crevasse of Forrest City – Brown moves the family home to Florida-non-negotiable... Interior – Drawing Room – Night – health declining:– Brown and sister play Spencer Courier and Monthly Visitor – a team of blonde construction workers rush about in panic and chaos – wife and orifice in Louisville, Kentucky – journeyman printer lifts solid gold cassock and fucks Brown up the ass with a soft corkscrew motion – waft of freshly soaped scrotum and petroleum jelly... enter Mother Jung (foreman, Coronado Yacht Club): boat number 23 slides into the harbour and Julia's sisters soap up the rectum with soft, holy hands – Brown dies promptly in November '23 (“O say, does that star spangled banner yet waaaave”). Out of production. Rancid jism in solitude of a damp alleyway, aged smell of musty rectum – businessmen from throttled stars flaming final penetration up to the hilt of a throbbing cockshaft... we leave to space. Embrace and click open leather stirrups to virgin Mary probing rough caress of a dark tube – long and obscenely flexible – multicoloured in the afternoon... Exterior – Night: musty passion bursts forth in Control mechanism entwining haze of grey dawn embers burning shamefaced – we jack off spurting mud-stained sprawl – melt down in collar, saints of the alleyway, Turkish bathhouse, fumble pants and automatic pleasure device – rape of saints mingles blood and rotten ectoplasm spitting in the grey dawn... we lift a solid gold cap of rusty Jew-tooth to sell on the black market of human soap and stolen Swiss art – venereal excitement (“o'er the land of the freeeee...”) – we go down screwing holy ass of moon burn out a soaped scrotum and petroleum jelly – skin sheds snakelike – “forgive me father for I have sinned” – mother Mary, queen of saints, makes you feel good just to see it... Interior – Jail Cell – sound of running water while two decrepit junkies fuck in a squeaking spring bed: rusty old newspaper nurses priapic growth, jacks off in fantastic frenzy of a grey afternoon – “do you touch yourself at night?” – fade in all the colours of the collection plate. Fishboy flesh in holy sweat of blood-stained vat, holy rancid jism... “leave the money on the dresser...” spits in grey jelly. Penetration rings bell on cracked plaster wall – old catholics cross themselves in the fading grey dawn – we move in through dry fumbling of pants and screw up the ass in desiccated hotel room passing limp prick to play the violin – “have to pay extra, holy water melts proboscis rough through neon window streets...” Insect fingers fumble pants and scarred navel receiving special arc of jism from limp prick twisting out and up – light bondage priest lifts solid gold cassock from the ceiling – well practiced manoeuvre on a mirrored ceiling – proboscis leans in, a hundred lovers want it special – makes you feel good just to see it... We hold 20 U.S gallons roaching in the grey dawn, screw each other up the ass in school of strapped leather stirrups printed below decks – Tripp designs the ship – Columbia yacht number 23 – we stand by the watershed in slow drip of expectant orifice. Brown dies down on a table of wet sex yearned a few months later – lower pilot berths melt flesh down to effluvious Kentucky bourbon – stainless steel sink of ectoplasm on breath of air – we join Brown springing to life in neon night – “leave the money on the dresser...” Promotion artist for saints of the universe: “we suppress saints of holy Independent – lift skirts of altar boys…” – Brown, famous cassock shifting, reveals the child Llewellyn reading newspaper page three: image of taut fishboy flesh – makes you feel good just to see it... Death of the Labor Record – fishboys die in desiccated insect fingers probing American Civil War, screwed up the ass by Spencer County Sheriffs (“and the hoooome of the braaaave!”). Brown escapes death of the flesh – flew the coop and spent all her younger sisters lifting skirts of altar boys – crops washed away with sins of the father... we melt away in Courier-Journal – one for the flesh and one for the Control mechanism... warned by doctors, Forrest City Wildcats moved to Peewee by the black man – the Wildcats! The Wildcats! Story of limp prick rising to the occasion: we spread the ass with jelly calloused knees in a well-practiced manoeuvre – devour the stirrups – “leave the money on the dresser” – “he make you feel it good… pay extra for that kind of thing...” two-way mirror, want it special... we lust into fading jelly. Cut to Turkish bathhouse on eastside street of a whining proboscis: long insect fingers probe taut fishboy flesh and limp prick of freshly soaped scrotum, petroleum jelly, and penile enlargement surgeries performed by this old doctor charge a dollar just to look – old catholics arc jism, colours fishboy flesh and slick sexual congress – viscous rivulet with steam and soapwash… Breath of boys in cramped vestibule – cold beet soup wasting pale gooseflesh in dripping, throbbing cockshaft – happy queens of a nation rush in to frenzied fumbling of flesh, cockshaft spearing holy deeds in desiccated touch of jism colours wet air and proffered cigarette. Flexible virgin wafts pubescent smell of freshly soaped jelly and penetrated rectum... we shift out in fading holy water hiding face in a rusty old newspaper, cum neon in shame of holy ecstasy – rotten ectoplasm on fading street of neon night, human detritus... Cut to nuptial night, the virgin Mary – Nazarene Hotel Room – Night: jumps on holy Joseph, withers and dies on the spot desiccating American football – rides the body sheep bleating and all manner of conferences – a thousand rusty Jews look on, breath held in football, jack off colours of the magi... Cut: Take 4 Lean, muscular lesbian sidesteps a lecherous studio executive goosing all the talent – steps into studio, assumes position in front of the microphone. Engineer: “all right, let's see if we can't get this over with...” Image track cuts back and forth over a musical interlude –vaudeville vamping on a de-tuned piano – fleshy thud of wrong note round and round – dials on the recording device swivel into position – image bears down on lean and muscular lesbian assuming position in front of the microphone. “All right, let's see if we can't get this over with...” O say can you seeee///death of the flesh in endless neon night///by the dawn's early light///we melt away/// what so proudly we haaaiiilled///arcing jism rainbows of the flesh///at twilight's last gleaming///screwed up the ass by Wildcats – Wildcats!!///whose broad stripes and bright stars///hail Mary, queen of saints///through the per-III-lous fight///screwed up the ass by Wildcats, Wildcats///O'er the ramparts we watched/// holy, holy Joseph – musty reek of stale rectum relieved and jellied///were so gallantly streaming?///a thousand insect fingers probe taut fishboy flesh///and the rocket's red glaaaaare///happy queens of a nation///the bombs bursting in air///repressed saints of sexual congress click open ornate cigarette case///gave proof through the niiiight///lecherous old priest sucking communion wine through scarred navel and toothless mouth///that our flag was still there///arcing jism of pubescent eyes on window and fire-escape///O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave///melt down in jelly of penetrated rectum///o'er the land of the freeee///screwed up the ass by Wildcats, Wildcats///and the hoooome of the braaaave///Wildcats! Wildcats!! Lachlan J. McDougall is an Australian prose technician working in cut-up and experimental literature. Currently working on debut novel 'The Jagged Spiral' as well as sporadic work on cut-up novel provisionally titled 'Terra Firma''. His blog can be found here. His first appearance in the Fall/Winter 2021 issue of Blue as an Orange can be found here.
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